Drinks and Cupcakes
by Jimelda
Summary: Sam, too much whiskey, and an in-town carnival. What could possibly go wrong? Pre-series. Set during Stanford. TwoShot.


**Title: **Drinks and Cupcakes  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Once again, I make no claims toward owning any part of the best show of the century. (ie. _Supernatural_ is not mine).  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sam wasn't always Joe College as Dean thought. He'd been through his fair share of drunken foolhardiness too. Complete with flashbacks, carnivals, and some good ol'-fashioned college fun. Nonslash unless you have a really wild imagination. Two-shot. The final chapter will be posted later this week.  
><strong>AN:** For reasons unbeknownst to me, this title refused to leave my mind, so here I am, rolling with it for lack of a more creative one.

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><p><strong>Part I: <strong>_Ferris Wheelin' Blues_

It was seven o'clock and already Sam was bored. Well, not bored, per say, more like disinterested. Screams of terror and exhilaration rang through the air, a layer of sound to accompany the heavy, almost haunting electronic music of the games and rides that were part and parcel of every carnival, and the soundtrack was doing nothing to sweeten his sour mood.

Instead it acted as a catalyst, drawing forth his gloom in its reminder that there was someplace else he'd rather be. Someone else he'd rather be with. Not that he didn't enjoy spending time with his college friends; the concept of normality was still foreign enough that he latched onto it every chance he could get.

Today was the exception.

Exactly one hundred and forty two years ago Bucharest was named the capital of Romania. Seventy three years later the fist canned beer was sold in Richmond, Virginia, and twenty three years afterwards the first man-made nuclear fusion took place.

Sam repeated the facts to himself with vague disinterest. In his mind the date had only one meaning: twenty five years ago Dean was born.

Dean, who first took Sam drinking at the tender age of fifteen, who taught him to drive and shoot pool, who told him it wasn't a crime to pee in the shower if you were lazy enough – even though Sam never inherited his brother's hustling skills and was never quite comfortable urinating while trying to lather, rinse and repeat. Dean, who was the only reason Sam had stayed with his dad as long as he did.

And, sure, it's not as though either brother had huge birthday celebrations as kids...

.oOo.

Sam's parties – if a gathering of two, occasionally three people could be classified as such – were small events. When he was young they were quiet family affairs; dinners of his choice. When he was a teenager – after Dad stopped worrying so much, left the running of the household to Dean, became more distant, more a figment of imagination than a solid presence – they were a night out on the town, just the two of them, Sam and Dean, raising hell, buying drinks and cupcakes, flirting with women – that part was mostly Dean, although Sam had a few hook-up horror stories of his own – and being together, celebrating in whatever way possible no matter what back-woods town they were in.

On the other hand, Dean's birthday experiences compared to Sam's were as different as a real spirit was from Casper. His fifth birthday came and went without so much as a smile of acknowledgement from their dad, and the next few followed suite, passing by just as silently.

It got to the point where Sam started watching for clues. Any sudden mood swings, brooding silences, increased drinking on his father's part, or overall pouty looks, which were usually Sam's thing, from either of the older Winchesters went hand-in-hand, by necessity, with the few days each year which held certain meanings to the two of them, despite their joint-refusal to explain to Sam any reasons behind the sidelong glances or lingering eye-contact until he was nearly six.

By that time he had begun attending kindergarten, Dean forcing him to enrol in each new town they breezed through, even if it was only for a week. Sam was certain they could both recall when Dean had picked him up at the end of the day only to be met with a teary-eyed five-year-old who wouldn't stop blubbering until they were halfway home and he suddenly blurted out "I don't know when your birthday is," the admission causing his tears to stream faster.

"We were making calendars today and Mrs. McQueeny told us to put stars beside the important dates of each month. She said to mark stuff like birthdays and holidays and days we get off school, and I couldn't do it because I only know my birthday but she didn't understand why I didn't finish the assignment and she took away one of my stars," Sam finished in a rush, his words running together like raindrops racing on a window pane.

It was only once he caught sight of the laugh lines etched into Dean's face that he wiped at his eyes, embarrassment turning his cheeks a lovely shade of vermilion.

"Why are you laughing? It's mean."

"C'mon Annie, it ain't nothing to cry over. My birthday's never been much of a big deal, and that's all there is to it."

"But Dean – "

"It's the hard-knock life for us," he sang loudly in a mock-falsetto voice that sent Sam diving to cover his ears, the topic of conversation forgotten until much later, when he decided it was time to take matters into his own hands and ask the head hauncho himself. Sam had a lengthy supply of puppy-dog looks and whining prepared in his quest for John to divulge the information, which took much less effort than anticipated.

"I'm surprised you didn't know, Sammy." He had to search hard for the smugness in his dad's voice, but it was there.

"How could I when no one ever mentions it?" he mumbled sullenly. Of course John, with ears sharper than a Great Horned Owl, heard him.

"One birthday a year is enough to celebrate, don't you think? Stop wasting my time on trivial customs, son. Go do your homework."

Sam never brought the subject up again, but the next year Dean awoke to find a package wrapped in bright green construction paper resting on the end of his bed. The year after that it was a paper bag decorated with hand-drawn stars and swirls.

He didn't question where Sam found the gifts inside – usually a skin mag or two, a package of peanut M&Ms, and once even a watch made of genuine silver that he wore religiously until it smashed to pieces on a hunt nearly seven years later – and his little brother was more tight-lipped about it than Genevieve Gage after a run-in with Captain Howdy, so Dean stopped mentioning it, other than to put on an exaggerated show of using his present, his wordless means of thanking Sam.

.oOo.

... but it had been nearly two years since Sam had last seen Dean and the ache that was constantly niggling at the back of his mind always managed to grow more persistent on his brother's birthday. Not that there was anything he could do about it.

He'd tried calling the first year. After ignoring his father and brother's phone calls for months, Sam figured the conversation would be awkward to say the least. What he hadn't expected was Dean slamming down the phone the instant he heard Sam's voice.

Slinking away to lick his wounds, Sam stubbornly refused to try again. He tried not to let his brother's obvious hatred bother him, or at least admit it bothered him, and his conscious had won out, at first.

Until Dean's twenty fifth birthday rolled around and Sam found himself stuck at this carnival, freezing his ass off and wishing he could have some peace and quiet for a minute, please and thank you, so he could at least attempt to call his brother, whether he'd pick up the phone or not. Then Sam could say he tried, Dean's appreciation be damned.

"Hey, space case, did you hear a word I said?"

Sam turned his unfocused gaze away from the flashing neon lights of the Tilt-a-Whirl back to Jess, who huffed good-naturedly.

"Where have you been for the past ten minutes? Trying to catch your attention is as useless as bug spray on mosquitoes," she said, referring to a disastrous camping trip from the previous June.

Sam had always hated camping – left-over bitterness from one too many tents crammed side-by-side with an ever-cheerful Dean, watching and waiting for shadows to detach themselves from the surrounding darkness and lunge for their campsite – and the entire experience, arousing as it may have been to sleep next to someone who didn't smell consistently of overcooked meat and leather, reminded him just how much he despised the activity.

The mosquito bites that left them both scratching for days upon days only served as a further, not-so-subtle reminder why Sam Winchester, Sasquatch-extraordinaire, shouldn't be allowed within ten acres of any shelter made with little more than a strip of nylon.

"Sorry. Lost in thought."

"Well it's time to surface from that waterlogged brain of yours and pay attention to the here and now, Sam. And tonight the goal is to have fun here, now," Jess explained, tossing a strand of wavy blonde hair over her shoulder.

"Yeah Sam. Your bad-mojo act is seriously curbing my enthusiasm," Luis added.

"You wouldn't want to curb Luis' enthusiasm, now would you, baby? You promised to cheer up for my birthday." She winked, letting her hand trail along Sam's back, her fingers bunching the fabric of his sweater, sending delicious knots of pleasure along his spine. He shivered.

"Hello. Well-educated, incredibly good-looking and unjustly single guy over here. Let's keep it PG, folks. Remember there are kiddies around," Luis chirped.

Jess frowned in their friend's general direction before withdrawing her hand reluctantly.

"Later tonight then," she breathed in Sam's ear. "I'm still waiting for my present."

"Sorry Jess," Sam said, wrapping one arm around his girlfriend and giving her a quick squeeze. "I don't mean to ruin your evening. Birthday's just aren't my thing, I guess."

"First its Halloween, now he shoots down the ritualistic celebration of birth, of _life_, too. What's next, Scrooge? Christmas too full of holiday cheer for your stone cold heart?" Luis mocked.

"Bah, humbug," Sam deadpanned, although in truth he'd lost his Christmas spirit thirteen years ago.

"Seriously though," he added, "maybe I should just skip this part and meet up with you both later. My mood's all over the map today and right now the dial is stuck on miserable and depressed."

Luis scoffed loudly.

"Suck it up you poor unfortunate soul. It's your girlfriend's birthday and if I were you I wouldn't mess with someone like her... Who is also drop-dead gorgeous," he chimed in after catching the expression on said girlfriend's face. "You've got a good thing going for you, Sammy boy, don't screw up now."

His laughter died in his throat at the spark of anger in Sam's eyes.

"Don't call me Sammy." The voice was cold, icier-than-the-North-Pole-on-a-brisk-winter's-day cold. Neither friend had heard Sam take that tone before. Neither was quite sure what to make of it.

But before they could say anything, the fire fizzled out and Sam was playing along once more.

"Did you just make a Little Mermaid reference, man? Tell me I imagined that."

"Look who's been holed up in his room watching Disney," Luis jibed, relief making him chuckle awkwardly. "Takes one to know one."

"Blame Jess. And that doesn't even make sense."

"Whatever. Enough of this back-and-forth. You're making me dizzier than the suckers on these rides, Sam. But if you're still worried about being the one to take a shit on this shindig, fear no more. We brought our own fun, right guys?"

He turned to face the group of seven or so who had formed their own circle at the carnival entrance, out of earshot until Luis shouted the final sentence at them. Sam watched a few pull flasks – the kind he'd been raised to store holy water in – out of jean or jacket pockets.

"Want some?" Simon asked, offering one to Sam, whose initial reaction was to shoot him down – after putting so much effort into establishing himself as a serious, hard-working student, he wasn't real keen on broadcasting how terrible he was at holding his liquor – but who paused instead, thinking _what the hell_. If he and Dean had still been on speaking terms, Sam was two hundred and thirteen percent sure his older brother would've told him to lighten up and get into the college spirit.

_You only live once, Sammy._

Touché, Dean, touché.

It was then and there Sam decided that since he couldn't talk to his brother, he would honour him in the only way imaginable: getting right-royally trashed.

"Thanks," he said, taking a generous swig of what he tasted to be Jack, forcing himself not to cough as the alcohol burned its way along the back of his throat.

Luis smiled in satisfaction, but Sam's eyes – once they'd stopped watering – were fixed solely on Jessica, gauging her reaction. For a second he caught hint of what must have been either disapproval or disappointment, but was gone so quickly he wasn't completely sure it had been there at all. In its place, a happy medium of neutrality as she accepted the flask herself, simultaneously shooting him a look that plainly said _What? It _is _my birthday_.

He let the non-verbal conversation drop, metaphorically-speaking, handing Luis the reins before the silence became weighted down with words left unsaid.

"Great. Now that Sam's PMS-ing is settled and the social lubricating has been done, let's get this party started, shall we? Let's get down and bogey. Let's do this thang!"

Sam's eyebrows knit themselves together in a mixture of confusion and concern for his friend's sanity.

"Dude. Social lubricating?"

"No mocking, Sam my good man, 'tis a phrase, 'tis a phrase. My older bro used to say it all the time."

Sam ignored the Dr. Seuss nursery rhymes, Luis' words bouncing off his skull, echoing over and over, filling him with guilt and loneliness. For some reason his friend's easy banter was sounding a hell of a lot like Dean tonight. He gestured at the hip flask.

"Mind if I hang on to that?"

"See, Janis Joplin, I was sure you knew how to have a good time. And have I ever been wrong about anything concerning the prestigious field that is _le partay_?"

"He hasn't," Joel piped up.

"Good answer, my faithful friend. So, are we gonna do this or what?"

"Damn straight we are," Jess agreed. "C'mon Sam, ride the roller coaster with me." She was dragging him away by the sleeve before he'd even had a chance to stuff the filled-to-the-brim flask inside his sweater. As such he was rewarded with the sight of Luis making a whipping gesture at his retreating form. Sam gave him a quick flash of his middle finger in return before Luis and the rest of the group were lost in the crowd, disappearing from view altogether.

.oOo.

Sam leaned back against cracked leather, reaching his hands upwards in a misguided attempt to have one small taste of the sky. To his left Jess shrieked, pulling him upright before he managed to topple them backwards, their seat already swaying in such a way that Jess herself was slightly nauseous.

"What are you doing?" she screamed between bits of terrified laugher. "You're going to make us fall!"

"I'm king of the world!" Sam shouted in return, stretching further upward. His head was spinning slightly and he was starting to think taking so many hits of whiskey had been a bad idea, but the thought drifted lazily from his mind, thin as a layer of mist, before he could so much as think to capture it, his attention captured in turn by the stars twinkling above, shining their lights just for him.

"Whoa there Mr. Dawson, I'm not too sure the top of a Ferris Wheel is a good substitute for a massive ship."

"Well I'll be damned, Rose. It's not much but it'll do. To the stars or bust, eh?"

He grinned, swinging his arms in a wide arc, sending the barely-horizontal seat rocking so much it might as well have been going around a Christmas tree. At this point Jess couldn't contain her giggles any longer.

"S-stop it baby, or we – we'll be kicked off the ride," she pleaded, smiling into his shoulder where her head was currently resting.

"Wouldn't that be an end your special day? Headlines reading: 'Girl plunges to her death in a tragic accident. Oh, and by the way. Happy-belated Birthday Jessica Lee Moore.'"

She swatted his arm lightly.

"You shouldn't joke about things like that, Sam. It's not funny."

He heaved a world weary-sigh, certain his words had been nothing more than the alcohol talking.

"I know. I'm sorry."

He drew her nearer, trailing kisses along her neck as he breathed in her scent; it was even more intoxicating than the whiskey.

"Happy birthday, Jess. I love you."

"I love you too, Sam, even though you stink like a brewery," she chided before planting her lips firmly against his.

When the kiss finally ended Sam whipped out his ever-trusty flask and raised it in the air.

"To Jessica, the most beautiful woman in the world," he toasted, gulping the amber liquid down. It barely scorched his throat any more, he figured his innards were already numb to the touch. Soon the rest of him would be too.

"I'll drink to that," Jess agreed.

"It's not a compliment," Sam explained, fumbling almost imperceptibly over the words. "You're _au natural_. Prettier than any siren and since you sure as hell aren't a shapeshifter, it's safe to say you're as close to Adam and Eve as it gets."

"I'm not sure if I should be more worried that the man I love knows his way around hair products or that I didn't understand another word he said."

"It's 'cause you're drunk, Jess. Dean says the world makes a helluva lot more sense to you when you're wasted, but you make no sense at all to anyone else," Sam told her gravely.

"That's good advice. Dean's your brother, right?" Sam never talked about his family and Jess couldn't help jumping at the opportunity to pry some information out of him, as wrong as it may be to take advantage of him in this state. It was his own fault for getting drunk on her birthday, she reasoned, pushing away the queasy feeling that had settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Yeah. Dean's my brother. Dean Jerome Winchester. Oops," Sam giggled, an honest-to-God giggle escaped his lips, as he covered his mouth. "Don't tell him I told you his middle name. He hates it. One time when we were living in Colorado he told everyone it was Patrick, as in Neil Patrick Harris. He was eleven and thought it was cool. It wasn't. Now sometimes he's Dean Levenson, or Dean Williams, or John Bonham, he likes that one. I'm not sure who he is now though."

Jess couldn't even begin to wrap her head around what Sam was telling her. Was his brother an agent of some sort? Witness protection? Either that or he was much more trashed than she'd originally thought.

"It's his birthday too, y'know. He's twenty five today." Now that was the kind of plain ol' English she could understand. Suddenly a million tiny details fell into place. Mysterious silences, heavy sighs, Sam's habit of picking up the phone a dozen times a day but never actually dialling a number.

She had to wonder, then, why Sam was here with her, when – with a flash of clarity she welcomed with open arms – he clearly wanted to be elsewhere.

"You should go see him. Or at least give him a call," she suggested gently. Sam was shaking his head before she was done speaking.

"Haven't talked in two years. He doesn't wanna see me, probably won't ever again." He sounded so sad. Jess' heart broke for him, but he wasn't about to let her dwell on pity for long.

"We should get a candy apple when this damn wheel _finally gets its butt in gear_." Sam bellowed the last few words to the ground crew beneath him, slurring only the tiniest bit. Jess had to agree, they'd been sitting at the top for quite a while.

Or maybe it only seemed that way to her because so much had changed in such a short amount of time.

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><p><strong>AN: **Being in a committed relationship entitles both participants to try things neither would consider touching with a ten-foot pole on a regular basis. Sam has no such excuse for _Annie_ and, despite his claims of it being a culturally enriching experience, he insists Dean is entirely at fault. Dean, in turn, blames crappy motel television.

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